Neruda, an exiled poet, a revolutionary, and a Nobel Prize winner in literature; the postman, the son of an ordinary fisherman, he doesn’t like it. Life on
a boat is a beautiful Italian island that is almost isolated from the world, a dilapidated bicycle, a letter from far away South America, a warm and touching friendship, right on the blue sea, among the steep walls, fisherman's hands In the sad fishing net,
he started silently. When he first went to see the poet, he was too nervous, rubbing his hands outside the door, and constantly practicing how to speak, while the handsome poet flirted with his beautiful lover in the garden. But he was reading love letters from women from all over, which made Mario envious. He said I want to write poems.
Well, starting from metaphors, poems are that you see the blue of the Mediterranean and you can’t help but admire
Mario in despair. I have to ask, but Neruda said: Poetry can't explain
until he saw the woman with all kinds of styles. Mario wrote his first metaphor. If I would fall madly in love with this woman, I remembered that In
I am in love, what should I do? Love is painful, but I want to continue the pain.
She held the little ball he handed over with her slightly opened lips , She stuffed the note he wrote into her deep cleavage. She was already inspiring when she wasn't smiling. The beautiful curve was simply a gift from heaven. At
their wedding, Neruda received the good news of ending exile. , He can return to his own country, and it is too late to be sad
. In the few years after he left, Mario always heard news about him indirectly, but the poet friend was too busy, as if he had forgotten this little island and the ordinary life on the island. The postman, you must know that he started another life of
Mario. Mario began to write poetry, for the poet's friend, for the revolution, when he was about to go on stage to recite poetry at a Communist Party rally, an accident happened, and the crowd panicked. , The poetry lottery that floated but finally landed. After
many years of bloody police suppression , the poet returned to this small Italian island. Mario’s child has grown up, but he has not seen his father.
His father collected all kinds of voices on this small island for this great friend, just not to forget
to cry, and there was a very beautiful regret in his heart, for Mario and Neruda, For friendship
is that year when Muse met me.
I don’t know where it came
from in winter? From the river?
when and where?
Not a sound, no words, let alone silence,
but from the streets I walked through,
from the long night, from the inspiration from others,
in the fire, or on the way home,
she has no content, but touched me. -Neruda
View more about The Postman reviews
